


With the Wind

by PompousPickle



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Mild Gore, Pining, Vore, i swear it's not as bad as it sounds, inspired from the youkai ichikuji announcement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 13:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18700390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PompousPickle/pseuds/PompousPickle
Summary: "There were several humans in the Toushu, but the one with glasses is his favorite."[A kamaitachi falls in love with the taste of his prey]





	With the Wind

There were several humans in the _Toushu_ , but the one with glasses is his favorite.

He is lazy, apathetic, and drinks far too much. His entire body reeks of alcohol, from his breath to his very flesh. He’s of high rank, but has no attachment to the flag that hangs outside of their camp. Mitsuki often wonders why he is even there at all. He cannot figure out why a man with so little care would stay up all night watching their camp for youkai intruders. Yet he still often volunteers for the job, drinking in the dead of the night, staring up listlessly at the stars.  

Mitsuki is always too eager to cut a guy like that down.

He comes with the hot summer wind, stifling but swift. He rides it effortlessly, his feet stepping across each stream as the wind whips through the trees and bushes of the untamed forests. When he sees the guard, he jumps off, one foot after the other. He lands easily before him, and then then he takes out his sickle in a single fluid motion, striking his kneecaps and sending the human man down to his knees.

Humans move at a dreadful speed, he’s learned. They are so feeble and fleeting, and their lives are so short. So Mitsuki has always figured that in order to get the most they possibly can from their brief existences, they must move slowly. So slowly that they cannot even see Mitsuki’s movements most of the time. Let alone perceive what happens after he strikes them down, and feel the things that happen after that. But for Mitsuki, they all happen in slow-motion.

He is sure to spin around to the captain’s front side while he works. He likes to see his face while he does it. He wonders what kind of faces he would make if he could feel Mitsuki carving into him. He wonders if he would scream, or if he’d be terrified at all. He always looks so unattached, so uninspired. Mitsuki wishes he could see him cry out in pain and frustration. He wishes he could make him feel something that the warmth of alcohol couldn’t dull down. He wishes his captain could see just how deeply he could bleed.

Tonight he craves the chest. The man wears his shirts low, with the neckline sinking downward to the planes of his breasts. Mitsuki only gets to see the man when he’s on guard for the evening, but he wonders just how depraved he is. How much he desires. What kind of human aches he longs to fulfil. He moves his sickle up, from the lowest point in his cleavage up to the cleft between his collarbones. The blade is sharpened impossibly, slicing through layers of skin effortlessly. Some of his kind have blades so sharp that they can remove the skin without leaving so much as a single drop of blood. Not Mitsuki.

He likes to see the blood leak out onto his chest, forming around the crevices as he carves into his meal. He tilts the human’s head back, like peeling back the skin of a fruit to reveal the flesh inside. He pulls out his prize with his other hand. He runs his tongue over it, relishing in the taste of human liquor as the blood drips down his mouth, and he pushes his precious prey down.

He straddles him as he eats his fruit with a single hand. He bites into it heartily; every sound echoing around him as the humid wind whips around, playing with the colorful sashes of his clothes. He moves his free hand up the surface of his chest, tracing the path of his blade. He splays his fingers out, all across the deep wound he has made. The human’s skin chases the tips of his fingers, rapidly healing itself as Mitsuki’s hands dance upon the flesh. The blood flows back inside, as though rushing to chase the sensation of Mitsuki closing the wound around him. Mitsuki shifts in his seat, wondering what his captain would look like if he knew what was happening to him. He wonders if this was a kind of pain that he desires; the kind of feeling that not even alcohol can chase away. He looks at the newly healed wound, leaving not even so much as a scar in its place. It seems a shame that no one can ever know just how thoroughly Mitsuki has ruined him.  

A drop of blood from Mitsuki’s meal falls onto the glasses, and he frowns. No evidence can be left behind, after all. It’s the first rule of his kind. He takes in the last bite, savoring it as he swallows his captain down. He licks his hands clean, running his tongue over every inch of every finger, cleaning out every drop of the truly dizzying blood. Mitsuki wonders how much more blood and flesh he’d have to take to feel drunk off of him. He wonders if it would kill him.

Once he’s clean, he leans down, pressing his chest against the guard captain. His tail shifts upward, moving with the wind around them. The contact between their bodies is warm, even in the suffocating summer heat, and it _excites_ Mitsuki. He tilts the human’s chin downward, to look at his eyes. They’re completely empty, still stuck in the moment of dull surprise from when he first fell. He cannot see Mitsuki’s eyes boring into him, trying to read every ounce of him, trying to consume him in ways that he can’t from simply eating his flesh. Mitsuki feels something twist inside of him, and he wonders if he’s become too addicted to the human.

He leans down, licking the man’s glasses clean. One last taste of his blood, and it’s just barely enough to get his flavor. Still, he knows he can hold onto it, at least for now. He pulls himself upward, letting himself fall back into the wind. His fingers trace the underside of the human’s chin before he goes, and Mitsuki hangs onto that sensation too, right until the man leaves the very tip of his fingertips.

He flies into the wind, landing back on the invisible tide on the balls of his feet. His stomach is now full, but he is still not at all satisfied. He takes a single glance back, and his human is climbing back onto his feet, wondering how he could have been so clumsy to fall to a simple breeze. He says something about having drank too much, but Mitsuki knows he still won’t stop. He touches his own lips, chasing the taste as the wind takes him away. And he knows that he won’t stop either.

**Author's Note:**

> Admittedly, I took some liberties with the legend of kamaitachi, but the stories all differ wildly from place to place anyway.


End file.
